One hundred and sixty two tons of wood and metal moves fast. Much faster than you'd think. When the captain announced the plans to take part in the tallship race, I wasn't sure what to expect. There were several other ships we were competing against, of all different shapes and sizes. Some had more sails, some had a lot more sails, and some had sails I didn't even know what to make of.
Yet here I was, after just a few days of giving tours in Duluth, Minnesota, racing across Lake Superior to claim first place.
The wind had been strong right off the starting line, and this had made things interesting. All hands were on deck, and every sail that could possibly be set had been. Always looking for extra speed, we rigged a sail from the yawl boat up to the mainmast. It looked as if someone had tied a large handkerchief to the mast. The Chief Mate joked about having, "Sixteen of our fifteen sails set," but man, we were flying.
As soon as we were off and going, all the watches (groups) that weren't scheduled to be on duty were sent below (meaning you get to stop working.) This time is precious onboard, so everyone strives to use it as best as they possibly can by finding some place where they won't be stepped on too much on the berth deck, and sleeping like a rock for as long as possible.
Naturally, I followed suit. Sleeping after hard work is hands down the best kind of sleep available to the average man and woman, or any kind of person regardless of stature in life. I recommend everyone try it at least once in life.
Much later, I awoke for the 1800-2300 watch. This moment in time, more than any other on my entire month aboard the Niagara is what captured the sense of manliness and adventure and everything I had been looking for (although that's not to say there weren't dozens of others. Trust me, there were.) The goal of the 1800-2300 watch (6p.m. to 11p.m. for those too lazy to convert) that evening was to bring down a lot of the sails we had put up during the day, so that late night watches wouldn't have too much trouble with the sails in the pitch black. We quickly hauled on some lines and got things in order for the most part, but then it came to taking down the main royal.
This, for those of you who don't know what it means, is effectively the most badass thing possible in one of the most badass careers possible. Instead of boring you with what it means, I'll scare you with what it means I do. To take down the main royals, you climb up around 110 feet up the mainmast and stand on a log no thicker than your leg. The shrouds, or effectively the ladder you use to climb up the mast, get smaller and smaller as you go up the mast.
I'll help give you a visual of climbing up. Your ladder (Call them shrouds, be a sailor.) starts out around 15 feet wide at the bottom. Nice fat ladder, no problem. As you go up, it slowly gets skinnier and skinner as it grows closer to the top. By the time you're 110 feet up, you're very lucky to manage to jam your hand or foot into the two inch gap. This entire time you've been climbing without something to back you up in case you fall. Now, all the way up, let go with a hand so you can clip your safety gear into something that isn't running straight back down the 35 meters you just climbed up. (Yeah I use metric too, going crazy here.) Look at the deck and shudder if you want, and then look out.
And see it.
Nothing but crystal blue water, all around you. No bottom in sight, no land in sight, and strangely, no panic either. Instead of bear hugging anything to keep from falling, I am so busy with working on taking down the royal and admiring the view, I find my hands more often than not either on the project or at my sides. It is beautiful up here. There are some views you can try to describe, there are some views a picture will do justice, and this is neither of those. It is something entirely unique and so spectacular, I can't put a thumb on how to aptly describe it. So I say sorry to you, the reader, and hope you will accept my humblest of apologies.
But from one hundred and ten feet off the deck of the Flagship Niagara, there is precious little in my head besides how beautiful the world can be.
We still had over 200 miles to go before we crossed the finish line, and every last one was worth savoring.
© Kyle Packer
As soon as we were off and going, all the watches (groups) that weren't scheduled to be on duty were sent below (meaning you get to stop working.) This time is precious onboard, so everyone strives to use it as best as they possibly can by finding some place where they won't be stepped on too much on the berth deck, and sleeping like a rock for as long as possible.
Naturally, I followed suit. Sleeping after hard work is hands down the best kind of sleep available to the average man and woman, or any kind of person regardless of stature in life. I recommend everyone try it at least once in life.
Much later, I awoke for the 1800-2300 watch. This moment in time, more than any other on my entire month aboard the Niagara is what captured the sense of manliness and adventure and everything I had been looking for (although that's not to say there weren't dozens of others. Trust me, there were.) The goal of the 1800-2300 watch (6p.m. to 11p.m. for those too lazy to convert) that evening was to bring down a lot of the sails we had put up during the day, so that late night watches wouldn't have too much trouble with the sails in the pitch black. We quickly hauled on some lines and got things in order for the most part, but then it came to taking down the main royal.
This, for those of you who don't know what it means, is effectively the most badass thing possible in one of the most badass careers possible. Instead of boring you with what it means, I'll scare you with what it means I do. To take down the main royals, you climb up around 110 feet up the mainmast and stand on a log no thicker than your leg. The shrouds, or effectively the ladder you use to climb up the mast, get smaller and smaller as you go up the mast.
I'll help give you a visual of climbing up. Your ladder (Call them shrouds, be a sailor.) starts out around 15 feet wide at the bottom. Nice fat ladder, no problem. As you go up, it slowly gets skinnier and skinner as it grows closer to the top. By the time you're 110 feet up, you're very lucky to manage to jam your hand or foot into the two inch gap. This entire time you've been climbing without something to back you up in case you fall. Now, all the way up, let go with a hand so you can clip your safety gear into something that isn't running straight back down the 35 meters you just climbed up. (Yeah I use metric too, going crazy here.) Look at the deck and shudder if you want, and then look out.
And see it.
Nothing but crystal blue water, all around you. No bottom in sight, no land in sight, and strangely, no panic either. Instead of bear hugging anything to keep from falling, I am so busy with working on taking down the royal and admiring the view, I find my hands more often than not either on the project or at my sides. It is beautiful up here. There are some views you can try to describe, there are some views a picture will do justice, and this is neither of those. It is something entirely unique and so spectacular, I can't put a thumb on how to aptly describe it. So I say sorry to you, the reader, and hope you will accept my humblest of apologies.
But from one hundred and ten feet off the deck of the Flagship Niagara, there is precious little in my head besides how beautiful the world can be.
We still had over 200 miles to go before we crossed the finish line, and every last one was worth savoring.
© Kyle Packer
